


Predators

by inlovewithnight



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-01
Updated: 2006-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-15 13:19:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight





	Predators

He finds Guinevere in the kennels, gazing idly down at the hunting dogs in their cages. “They’re pretty,” she says, without looking up.

“They’re deadly,” he says, leaning against the wall by the door. He watches her walk slowly along the row of cages. “Any one of them can tear out your throat before you could even scream.”

She smiles. “So you have a kinship with them.”

“I have no desire to tear out your throat,” he says, deliberately omitting any term of respect. Perhaps she notices, or perhaps the faint smile on her face is from some thought of her own.

“But pretty, and deadly, and sleek and strong....” Her smile grows wider. “That could refer to either these creatures or to you.”

He raises an eyebrow, but says nothing, and she laughs. “You take a compliment well, knight.”

“I see no reason to argue with simple facts.”

She acknowledges that with a tilt of her head and continues to walk along. “What else can you tell me about these dogs?”

“They’re used for hunting deer. Boar. Escaped prisoners and deserters.” He takes a few steps into the room and one of the dogs sits back on its haunches and snarls. “And for frightening children into obedience so they might learn to be soldiers.”

“Are there many children here?” She runs her fingers along the bars of one of the cages.

“Not so many as there used to be.” He crosses the room quickly, catching her wrist and pulling her back from the bars. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“I’m not afraid of beasts.” She takes her hand away and he lets it go, watching as she steps away, defiance in her every motion.

“And they are not afraid of you.” She glances back and he smiles. “These aren’t wild things, who will go their way and let you go your own. They have been schooled to hunt and kill your kind.”

“And of course there is no hope that they might rise above their training.”

“One can’t expect too much from a mere dog.”

“Sometimes the lowest of animals may surprise you.” She reaches out to touch the bars again. “Seems a shame to keep such lovely things in cages.”

“Keeps them hungry. Keeps them mean.” He steps close to her again, eyes fixed on the dog that is watching her hand. Its lip is curled and a low growl is shivering in the air. “And ensures that they’re always there when you want them.”

“Like a blanket. Or a spoon.” She laughs and drifts away again. “Imagine comparing these gorgeous killers to a spoon.”

“Perhaps a knife would be more accurate.” He follows and she continues to move, maintaining the space between them. “Or a sword.”

“Perhaps.” She peers down into a cage where a bitch is nursing puppies. “Arthur’s swords, then? As everything here is his?”

“He is only the agent of Rome.”

“Not anymore.” She turns from the puppies with disinterest and frowns. “Do they obey you?”

“What do you think?”

“I can’t decide.” She moves back to the cage she touched before and places her hand against the bars again. And again, the creature inside sits up and growls. “On the one hand, it seems they ought to recognize your strength. One pretty hunter to another.”

He watches the space between the dog and the bars. “And on the other hand?”

“On the other hand, I wonder if perhaps they don’t realize that you’re another one of Arthur’s swords. Just like them.” Her lips curve up in another vicious smile. “Another Roman dog.”

“You’d do well to remember,” he says, eyes still fixed on the animal, “that in any pack of dogs, there’s a ranking. And those below will show their throats to those above.”

“You place yourself above the others, then?” She slips her hand between the bars, stretching her fingers toward the animal. It snarls and launches itself forward, faster than thought, fast as the killer instinct that drives his swords in a battle.

He barks out the stop command, in the Latin that feels sharp-edged and foreign in his throat. It pulls back, growling in frustration but staying its teeth.

Guinevere hasn’t moved her hand an inch. She smiles and turns her wrist so the dog’s breath huffs across her palm, so close she could touch its fangs if she wanted. “So you are above this one, at least.”

“At the very least.” He moves to her side and she permits it, not giving ground. He takes hold of her arm and pulls it from the cage. “What do you want, Guinevere? What are you doing here?”

“Where would the thrill be in the hunt if the deer knew the mind of the hunter?”

“The deer knows well enough.” His hand slides down her arm to circle her wrist. “And which of us is the hunter here, anyway?”

Her smile is still in place, and far from reclaiming her distance, she steps closer, close enough to press her body against his. “Whichever doesn’t end up showing its throat, I imagine.”

He stares down into her eyes, hungry and bright and eager. He recognizes the look there: she’s as much a hunter and killer as any other creature in the room.

“Well, knight?” She reaches up and runs one finger down his throat, tracing over the curve of his Adam’s apple and lingering in the hollow of his collarbone. “Would you get on your back for me? Show your throat and your stomach in surrender?”

He growls in response, before he can think or realize how that reflects what she’s said. And she laughs, caressing his throat again.

“I think you will,” she whispers. “But there’s no shame in surrender, Lancelot. I would never keep you caged.”  



End file.
